


empires burning in your veins

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, brief carra mention (shouting at the refs as always), istanbul warning, written by a manc warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:24:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5550707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xabi, you call, I'm here.<br/>(or: five minutes Stevie says Xabi's name.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	empires burning in your veins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> disclaimer: I have 0 background in this, so I apologise for bad characterisation in advance :(. I just like their story and Xabi's face.  
> 

_29.03.2015_  
_Gerrard XI - Carragher XI  
_ _‘2_

This is Anfield, and Anfield chants his name like he never left.

You watch him watching the crowd, the way his lip collapses comfortably into that boyish smirk. You know the way his heart will be beating A-L-O-N-S-O (you know because sometimes yours does too, in middles of nights without end). He raises his arm, drinks it in a little wave, Xabi Xabi Alonso. The ball arrives at his feet and you arrive in 2004, the lines fading from your face like memories.

Xabi, you call, I'm here.

He passes without looking, twenty three again, you wait for it (for him) to fall. It sweeps into the air in a long, high arc, spinning ever so gently sideways; you can see the slice of sun that the plastic surface has caught. It spirals downward and you snatch it from the air with the toe of your boot, the easiest of flicks, the perfect pass. Just like you've been doing all these years, all those years. You surge forward, ball tucked tightly at your instep. His name pounds in your feet and your heart.

When you look up he is there; not just in position, but _there_ ; real, to pass to and shout to and give yourself to. You give the ball instead, because there is nothing else. He moves it on (he moves on) and someone else in a black shirt snatches it up.

The fans roar their approval at their midfield pivot, creaky but moving, oiled by nostalgia and the promise of what could have been. He catches your eye and gives you a smirk and a nice one, Stevie. You do his running for him (you run for him), Xabi Xabi Alonso.

 

 _28.10.2007_  
_Liverpool - Arsenal  
_ _'7_

Your first thought is that he usually takes these, with his golden touch and the way he stands over the ball like a sentinel, a guardian angel. His hands on his hips, his lips pursed, his back tracing a perfectly straight line of red against green.

Now you stand over the ball, trying to look at the goal and not at the man in Block MC, his leg in a cast as heavy as his heart must be. They always tell you not to mess with injuries, yet still he wanted to come back, wanted to give, to slot back along you in the only way he knows how. So he sits in the stands and you put your hands on your hips, the Arsenal players leering at you, as if they too can feel the empty space by your side.

You’ve practiced these a thousand times with him, or at least you’ve watched him practice these a thousand times, in the dying hours long after everyone else has gone home. Xabi, this is shite. Xabi, my grandmother could do better than that. Stevie, fuck you. You corpse around on the pitch, trying to get him to say ‘fook’ instead, what do you think ‘Xabi’ would sound like in Scouse?

Just the way you say it, he says, grinning boyishly. Zaby.

I say it perfectly, you say, massacring it again.

No names to massacre today, no grandmother to do better than, only a wall to breach and a net to strike. A thousand times, and surely after all the things he’s taught you (all the things you’ve learnt), this is something to be done. He can’t be on the pitch, so you be him for him, the foot that follows through is his, the curve and power vintage Alonso. It rattles the keeper as it sweeps into a one-nil lead, and all the red shirts in the world stand up to bellow your name. You spin away, finger in the air, eyes on the man in Block MC. Zaby, Xabi, this is for you. This has always been for you.

 

 _24.05.2009_  
_Liverpool - Tottenham Hotspur  
_ _'90_

He kissed you one cold Liverpool Monday, as the stars flecked the sky with white. Xabi, you said whispered cried, giving everything you ever had into that touch. Stevie, he said breathed sighed, Stevie, I'm going to Spain.

It's selfish, you know, watching him move so easily beside you. You've told yourself this a million times and more; this was not about you and has never been. His number goes up in lights and you think, Xabi, how will I hold my shape without you? How will I move, who will I pass to, where do I go?

There are no answers, only goodbyes. He stretches his hand towards you. You grasp his arm, pull him close for the smallest of seconds, he lets go (you let him go).

He gets a standing ovation, scattered boos at Benitez on his behalf, he gets the love of a crowd for whom red is the only colour. You know you shouldn't, but you join in the clapping anyway (how can you not? The heart says farewell, too). Even now, some fans still bear the signs: ALONSO STAY. Xabi stay. Xabi, stay.

He walks off alone, the number fourteen glimmering red and white, and the stands of Anfield sing.

 

 _29.08.2004_  
_Liverpool - Bolton Wanderers  
_ _‘0_

He's bright, fresh-faced, eager to please, you see this in all new players as their numbers go up in lights for the first time. His brown hair flops into his eyes as he jogs on, and the grass under his studs is slow to spring back up, cutting a path into the pitch towards you.

You've met him already, of course, the customary round of handshakes and hellos, I'm Steven Gerrard I'm your captain call me Stevie. He gave you a smile that was shy yet somehow oddly inscrutable, like a boy too quiet to tell you his secrets and too smart to let you figure them out. You smiled back uncertainly and asked for his name. Xabier, he said haltingly, Stevie. My name is Xabier.

What does it mean? You asked, not sure why you needed to know.

He shuffled his feet and says, tienes los ojos bonitos. Then he smiles again. Home. It mean home.

Home, you remember as he takes his place now, next to you. The ball trundles to your feet, and immediately he’s there where he’s supposed to be, there, waving his arm in the air like a drowning man. Stevie, he calls, like it's the only English word he knows. Stevie.

The pass is inch-perfect, and he picks it up like he's known you for years. But this is not about time, you realise, watching him flow with the ball; no forevers could have made this strange new boy with the shy smile and the soft eyes.

You roll the name around your mouth, exploring the unfamiliarity.

Xabier.

You taste home on your lips.

Xabi-er.

 

 _25.05.2005_  
_Liverpool - AC Milan  
_ _'60_

You wish you could count every single one of them, the fans out of their seats with scarves and flares and the red of their hearts, belting out the lyrics to the only song you know. Instead you count the score, 3-1, 3-2, hardly daring to hope in your heart as it climbs. You barely remember your own, just a touch of your head and the ball floating into the net, you floating along with it.

Gattuso pulls you down, and Carra’s already screaming in the face of the referee, but your thoughts are only on your soft-eyed boy. There’s nothing to be said, and you clap him on the shoulder; hold your head up high, don’t be afraid of the dark.

He steps up to the ball and you feel your shoulders tense. Walk on, walk on. You wish you could be the one up there instead, selfishly, wish that he was the one standing where you are, to suffer the far-worse fate of watching and waiting for the person you love to bend and break. You can’t stomach the thought of has-been Xabi, missed-at-Istanbul Xabi, and it takes all your heart not to turn away as he runs towards the ball.

Forty thousand people run towards it with him. The words crash into your head like a hymn, this club your church, this boy your home. Walk on through the wind, and he smashes the ball towards the bottom left corner. Walk on through the rain, a cry rips from your mouth as you see Dida diving to parry it away, no Xabi no, I’ll not let them break you. Then another boot, a flash rocket towards the roof of the net, and the sweet silver song of the lark – all of your love has led to this. His cheek is half buried in the grass and you slide in to join him, touching your foreheads together, stealing his face for your memories. You’ve come back from three nil down in the champions league final, fooking hell, everything is Liverpool and it bangs against your chest. His eyes are bright as the crimson flares that light up the stadium. Stevie I did it, Xabi you did it, your arm is around his neck and the sky is golden.

His hand touches your shoulder as you jog back towards the centre of the pitch, and you look up at the board to see both your names. I have you, I have this, I have. You feel the warmth of his breath on your face and see the glint of red in his hair. Whatever comes, whatever comes. This will have been enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. I support United, so....take everything with a pinch of salt  
> 1\. tienes los ojos bonitos means you have beautiful eyes, according to google /shifty  
> 2\. Apparently [Xabier means 'the new house'](http://www.babynamespedia.com/meaning/Xabier/m) and why did I not know this before???? IT MAKES EVERYTHING SO MUCH SADDER  
> 3\. I did v brief research so I'm sorry if I've got some of my facts wrong - the dates and minutes shoooould be correct, though some details (e.g. Xabs didn't get subbed off in that game; I just needed his name in lights) are made up sorry D:  
> 3.5 They didn't actually chant [A-L-O-N-S-O](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJYR7huM7KM), they chanted Xabi Alonso *clap x5*, but I thought that chant was more fitting  
> 3.68 [This](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ChG4EwwaF7U/Sm3e8lTu25I/AAAAAAAAARM/BXUgfpCT71s/s320/My+Camera-Liverpool+v+Singapore_Alonso+Stay_01+.jpg) is the ALONSO STAY banner and it makes me sad  
> 3.94 I know it'd have been more likely for Xabs to say 'Steven' rather than 'Stevie', but 'Stevie' made me a lil happier  
> 4\. I'm sorry I wasn't able to do Istanbul justice :(( Sharon this is what you get for making me write Gerlonso  
> 5\. [background music](http://mesutings.tumblr.com/post/136025879629/skrtelshead-3-0-down-at-half-time-in-a)!  
> 6\. Title from [this gorgeous poem](http://astoriamalfoys.tumblr.com/post/68166243037/roses-for-persephones-priestess).  
> 7\. Thanks for reading :)


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